


Passing by the Monsters In My Head

by enigma731



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Drinking Games, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-07 07:47:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12836541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma731/pseuds/enigma731
Summary: “This,” Peter says dramatically, “is Asgardian mead. Booze of the gods. Or, well, demigods, technically."“All right,” Gamora answers indulgently. “So the surprise is that I get to watch you get incredibly drunk?”“No!” he says quickly. “No, no. Not me. This stuff? A couple sips and I’d beout.This is for you.”“For me,” she echoes skeptically. “Why?”“Because you,” Peter says, “told me that you have never been able to get drunk. So we are going to fix that.”





	Passing by the Monsters In My Head

**Author's Note:**

  * For [invisibledaemon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/invisibledaemon/gifts).



The main thing Peter’s thinking is that this never would have been possible on the Milano.

He misses living on it, sure -- He has always, _always_ been a creature of nostalgia and, conflicted as he might always be about Yondu, the man’s death has left him with a whole new set of sentimentalities. Which is ironic, when he thinks about it. He can practically hear Yondu mocking him for that. But anyway, the _point_ is that he will always associate the Milano with his childhood, and with the transition from that into...well, _technically_ adulthood, though he’s never really felt fully _grown_. Yondu’s death, and their subsequent move to the Quadrant, have made his feelings for the ship especially bittersweet. Asshole. 

Tonight, though, he’s glad to be in a larger space. Especially one featuring quarters with doors that close. True, they’re docked for the night, and he’s left the others in one of this port’s less seedy bars, but he needs guaranteed privacy for this plan, and he knows better than to take that for granted.

Lulled by the familiar sound of the shower running, he flops down on the bed to wait for Gamora to finish. It doesn’t take long -- she has never taken long showers as far as he can tell, though they’re getting longer as she gradually grows more comfortable with herself, with this life and the small luxuries it’s beginning to afford all of them. 

When she emerges from the bathroom a moment later, she’s wearing one of his long, loose shirts, damp hair piled on her head in a messy bun. It’s been at least a month since she picked up the penchant for wearing his clothes, but it’s nowhere near old yet, and Peter feels his heart swell immediately at the sight.

“Hi,” he breathes, sitting up again and grinning, unable to contain his joy at having her here in this moment, or his glee at what he’s about to do next.

“Hi,” she echoes, then pauses halfway across the room, cocking her head to the side as she takes him in, her eyes searching him. “What’s going on?”

Peter hesitates for only a moment longer, then decides it’s time to get on with his plan. “I got you a surprise.” He leans over, pulling a paper bag from under the bed and laying it across his lap.

Her eyes narrow. “Peter…”

“I know, I know.” He holds up both hands as if in surrender; he’s suspected the conversation might go this way. “It’s not another cheesy t-shirt, I promise.”

Gamora crosses her arms. “So it’s something else that is -- cheesy?” The word sounds just a little stiff in her mouth, like so many other Earth expressions he’s taught her. She’s getting there, though.

“It’s not a cheesy anything,” says Peter, still smiling despite himself. He pats the spot on the mattress beside him. “C’mere. I’ll show you.”

She sighs -- though her play at exasperation is getting less convincing every day -- and moves to sit beside him as directed. “Yes?”

He leans over and presses a kiss to her temple, then reaches into the bag on his lap and pulls out an unmarked bottle filled with amber liquid. 

“This,” he says dramatically, “is Asgardian mead. Booze of the gods. Or, well, demigods, technically. _Not_ easy to find, mind you, because it’s not supposed to make its way _out_ of Asgard.”

“All right,” she says indulgently. “So the surprise is that I get to watch you get incredibly drunk?”

“No!” he says quickly. He’s thought the conversation might go this way, too. “No, no. Not me. This stuff? A couple sips and I’d be _out._ This is for you.”

“For me,” she echoes skeptically. “Why?”

“Because you,” Peter says, “told me that you have never been able to get drunk. So we are going to fix that.”

Gamora arches an eyebrow. “I am surprised that you remember that conversation, given how drunk _you_ were at the time.”

Peter grins. “Oh, I remember. I _also_ remember you saying some choice things about how you were envious of the other patrons in the bar that night.”

“Funny,” says Gamora. “I don’t recall that.” 

She is an excellent liar when she wants to be, undoubtedly shaped by her years as an assassin. Peter is just as good at reading poker faces, though, and he’s the _best_ at reading her, or at least he likes to think so. He doesn’t miss the way the corners of her lips grow ever so slightly tighter as she says the words, or the way her tone is just a tad too light to be genuine. Besides, he knows that her memory is perfectly fine.

“Oh,” he answers, calling her bluff by meeting it with overly casual enthusiasm meant to convey the message that he knows exactly what she’s up to with her denial. “Let me refresh your memory, then! You said people always seemed to have _fun_ when they were drinking, and that sometimes you wished _you_ could let your guard down like that. Ring a bell?”

Her lips twitch, and for a moment he can see her contemplating another denial. She’s getting more and more comfortable, though -- with honesty among many other things. “I suppose I might recall something like that.”

“You said,” he continues, “that it would never happen, because bars don’t sell alcohol strong enough to get you drunk, and because you wouldn’t feel safe about it even if they did.”

She nods, not even pretending to argue with that part. “Yes, I did. So why--”

“So,” he interrupts, “being the _excellent_ problem-solver that I am, I have solved both of those problems.”

“Peter…” Her expression is a combination of skepticism and interest, a look he’s learned to interpret as her version of longing.

“Look,” he prompts, holding up the bottle of mead. “This stuff’s made to get _gods_ wasted. It’ll definitely work for you. And as for the other part, there’s nobody here but me and you. With doors we can close and everything.”

Gamora takes the bottle from him, holding it up to the light and holding it at an angle as she considers the honey-colored liquid in the dim lighting. “You got this for me because you remembered what I said.” It isn’t a question, more a statement to herself.

“Yes,” says Peter, then hurries to add, “because I want you to be able to try new things. I want you to know you can do that with me. But also, I won’t be mad or disappointed if you don’t want to. It’s totally your choice.”

“I know,” she says quickly, then offers him a small smile. “But thank you for saying it.” She removes the cap from the bottle and sniffs its contents, which are strong enough that Peter can smell the alcohol without even leaning over. “It’s -- not unpleasant.”

He nods. “It tastes good too. Or at least regular mead does. It’s made from honey, so it’s sweet.”

“When you drink,” says Gamora, “sometimes you become -- a mess.”

Peter snorts. “Gee thanks.”

She shrugs unapologetically; she’s not wrong in her observation. “Will that happen to me?”

He considers for a moment. “I don’t know. I mean, hopefully not, but even if you do, that’s what I’m here for, right?” 

He’s still half expecting her to refuse, has already prepared himself to accept the possibility that she isn’t ready for this, won’t be comfortable giving up so much control. But Gamora constantly surprises him, and tonight she just nods.

“May I have a glass or do I need to drink directly from the bottle for the authentic experience?”

He laughs, amazed, and scrambles to his feet to grab one of the glasses he keeps in the seating area. “Here you go.”

Gamora nods her thanks as she takes the glass from him and pours a small amount of liquid into it. The bottle is heavy -- he knows, because he was the one who bought it, the one who carried it here -- but she handles it as though it’s light as a feather. 

Setting the bottle on the nightstand, she swirls the glass a couple of times before taking a careful sip. Her eyes fall closed, brow furrowing for the briefest second as she swallows slowly. 

“It’s sweet, but it burns,” she comments. Peter opens his mouth to respond, to say something about how there are probably mixers in the bar down the hall if she wants one, but she cuts him off. “I like it.”

He grins, shaking his head knowingly. “Of course you do. Probably shouldn’t drink it too fast, though. We have no idea how this stuff is gonna affect you.”

“All right,” she agrees, pouring another half glass and setting the bottle down again. She takes another sip, then turns back to him. “So...do you plan to just sit here and watch me drink? That sounds decidedly boring.”

Peter considers. In truth, that _had_ been his plan. He could happily watch Gamora all day, he thinks, even if all she was doing was sleeping. On second thought, though, he can totally see how that might be awkward for her, so he gets to his feet again and moves to the console against the far wall.

“How about we give this a little authentic ambiance?” he suggests, opening the holo projector program. It comes with presets that can create translucent simulations of various locations, so you can pretend to be lying in bed under the night sky or hanging out among the waves of your favorite beach, so long as you don’t care that everything is ghostly blue and superimposed on the still-visible captain’s quarters. Not the most sophisticated thing in the world, but it’ll do for now.

Scrolling through several choices, Peter selects a Xandarian bar that he’s partial to mainly because it reminds him of similar establishments on Earth -- or at least the ones he’s seen in movies, anyway. Not like he was ever old enough to go to one for real in his years there. Still, the place has mostly tolerable music, some subtle background noise of people talking, and a holographic dartboard on the wall. _That’s_ what he thinks will keep them occupied tonight.

“How ‘bout this?” he asks, snapping his fingers to give the computer a command, and a simulated dart appears in his hand. He throws it at the board, landing a couple inches to the left of the bullseye, and turns to assess Gamora’s reaction.

“Not bad,” she allows, “but I prefer knives.” Keeping her glass in one hand, she gets to her feet, fiddling with the customization controls for a moment. Then she closes her palm, makes a small gesture that looks something like a flourish, and shows him the tiny silvery dagger that’s appeared in her grasp. “Much better.”

Peter feels his mouth go dry. “Uh, that’s one word for it.”

She takes a few steps closer to the board, then glances back at him over her shoulder, grinning. Taking a drink from the mead in her right hand, she casually tosses the knife in her left, the effortlessness of the movement almost suggesting carelessness. Naturally it lands precisely on top of Peter’s dart, slicing straight through it.

“Huh,” she says nonchalantly. “Will you look at that. Wonder how many points that’s worth.”

“I take it you’re not feeling the booze just yet, then.” He shakes his head sadly, though inwardly he’s beaming. He loves Gamora’s competitive streak, especially when it’s directed at something as frivolous as this. _Especially_ when it’s directed at something solely for her own enjoyment.

“No,” she agrees, tilting her head back and draining the rest of the first glass. Setting it down for the moment, she snaps her fingers, a fresh dagger materializing in her palm, and turns back to him again. “So, what do you want to play?”

Peter gets to his feet, retrieving the bottle of mead from the bed and waiting for her nod before pouring her a second glass. Then he grins. “I wanna play ‘get my girlfriend so wasted that I can actually beat her in a physical game, for once.’”

“Oh, was that your clever plan?” She picks the glass up again and takes a long swallow, then flips the dagger over in her hand. Peter thinks he might be able to see the barest hint of a flush rising in her cheeks.

“Damn!” He feigns theatrical regret. “She caught me!”

Gamora rolls her eyes. “Seriously, what game do you want to play? Or -- What game do you want to have half a chance of winning against me?”

“Oh,” he challenges. “Defiant. I like it.” He considers for a moment, then decides to go easy on her. He’s not, after all, _actually_ doing this for himself. The best reward will be seeing her have a good time. “Round the World.”

“I knew you were going to say that,” she teases, and throws the remaining daggers of her turn cleanly at the 1 and 2 on the board. 

Peter shakes his head, feigning sadness. “Your aim is still too good. Drink some more.”

Gamora picks up her glass and holds it up in a mock toast. “To your imminent staggering loss.” She takes a healthy drink, keeping it close to her lips as she watches him over the rim. There’s _definitely_ color rising in her cheeks, though her movements seem graceful and precise as ever.

He sighs, forever equal parts charmed and exasperated by her stubborn streak. He pantomimes raising a glass and then drinking from it. “To my stunning victory.”

“It _would_ be stunning,” says Gamora, but the affection in her smile undercuts the words.

“Hey now!” He motions for the sim to begin his next turn, a dart appearing in his hand. He chooses not to comment on the fairness -- or not -- of playing with darts versus daggers. It feels fitting, at the very least. “Watch this!”

He throws and misses, the dart lodging itself in the 2 zone instead of the 1.

Gamora arches an eyebrow. “Watch what?”

That, predictably, makes him think of Star Wars, and besides, she looks so pleased that it’s hard to be grumpy about his own failure.

“This!” He puffs out his chest a bit as he throws again, finally managing to hit the 1 with his last dart of the turn.

“Well,” says Gamora, watching as his dart flashes for a moment before disappearing. “I suppose you’re not completely hopeless. Just mostly.”

Peter feigns sadness. “Gamora. Do you know what happens to characters in movies who monologue instead of making their move?”

She’s already signaled the computer to begin her turn, has one of the daggers in her hand, but turns to look at him instead of throwing it. “What?”

Peter moves lightning-quick, grabbing the dagger out of her hand -- further proof that the alcohol _is_ having an effect on her, or else he’d never have been able to pull off that stunt. He throws the dagger directly into the 6, wasting the turn, and grins obnoxiously at her. “People take advantage of how slow they’re being.”

His heart does a little flip as he waits to see how she’ll respond -- He isn’t afraid of her and never has been, really, but that doesn’t mean he’s unaware of how formidable she is.

To his surprise, though, she just shrugs and takes another drink of the mead. “Fair enough. I will be more efficient.” Setting the glass down, she snaps her fingers with both hands, receiving a dagger in each. Then she throws both simultaneously. The one from her left hand hits the 3 perfectly cleanly, while the one from her right just barely manages the 4. Still, two points for her, and he shakes his head in fond chagrin.

“All right,” says Peter, as he begins his turn. “New rule. Every time you get a hit, you have to drink.”

Gamora arches an eyebrow at him. “And in what way is that strategic, from my perspective?”

“Well.” He turns on the charm, his very _best_ hustle, knowing that she’ll see straight through it and also not caring in the least. “It depends on your goal here, I think. Last time I checked, our objective was to get you drunk, in which case, this is an _excellent_ strategy. If, on the other hand, your goal is to beat me at darts, it might be slightly less certain. But, on the third hand, if your goal is to prove me wrong in every way possible…”

“Then I have to play within the rules of your game,” she agrees, stepping closer and looking up at him through her lashes. “In order to subvert them.”

“Yes,” says Peter, swallowing. He thinks he knows where this is going.

“What if I do this?” she asks, leaning in to kiss him.

For a moment he allows himself to melt into it -- the warmth of her body, the impossibly delicate brush of her fingers against his cheek, the subtle sweet burn of the mead lingering in her mouth. But then he catches her gently by the shoulders and takes a step back. “Nice. But I’m not gonna forget that it’s my turn.”

This time he gets lucky, managing two hits out of three throws, keeping himself just one point behind her.

Gamora says nothing more about his suggestion, but she acts on it anyway, taking generous gulps of the mead after each impossibly accurate throw. The change in her is gradual but unmistakable. Her movements become somehow _more_ fluid at first, and Peter realizes belatedly that it’s because the usual tension she carries in her body at all times has drained away under the influence of the alcohol -- exactly as she must have hoped it would.

When she finishes the second glass of mead, she sets it down on the nightstand and instead grabs the bottle, swigging directly from it, apparently having decided to forego any sort of restraint. 

“You have any idea how hot that is?” Peter asks after she tips it up for a long drink, wiping her mouth with the back of a hand.

“You think that about everything I do,” she says blithely, throwing a dagger with one hand while still gripping the bottle in the other.

“True,” Peter allows, shaking his head a bit.

Her aim begins to degrade when she reaches the double digits, the bottle over half-empty now. She manages to hit the 13 -- just barely -- but her next two throws go wide, hitting 15 and 16 too soon.

“Ah-ha!” Peter crows, motioning for the darts to begin his own turn. “You’re drunk.”

That’s the entire _point_ of this, one she’s enthusiastically subscribed to, but leave it to Gamora to be stubborn about admitting it anyway.

“No I’m not.” Her words are just a bit less crisp than usual, not quite an actual slur.

“Yeah, babe, you are,” he says grinning.

Gamora wrinkles her nose at him, then clumsily grabs the dart out of his hand. Peter lets her, expecting her to waste his turn. But she’s apparently lost track of his progress, because she throws it at the 13 and scores another hit, effectively tying their scores.

“Thanks,” he laughs, as her expression grows even more ornery.

The faces that she makes at him turn out to be unintentionally effective, and he misses his next two throws from giggling too hard, wrecking the turn after all.

“Thanks,” Gamora parrots smugly. She takes another swig from the bottle, throws one of her daggers and misses the board entirely. For a moment she just goes still, staring in confusion as though she’s unable to comprehend what’s just happened. 

“I know it’s hard to believe,” says Peter, “but you just missed. Like, epically.”

She shakes her head, a jerky little motion. “There was a glitch.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “In your motor control.”

“No,” she says slowly, “I am fine.” She summons another dagger as though to prove it. This time she at least _hits_ the board, but it’s not even in the right quadrant. Same with the one after it.

Peter shakes his head mock-sadly. “Like I said. Drunk.”

For a moment he is actually distracted enough by that to forget that it’s supposed to be his turn, and she’s apparently _not_ too intoxicated to take full advantage. 

“This game is pointless and un-entertaining,” says Gamora, her increasing difficulty telling him a convincing lie amplified by the alcohol. “Also I am bored.”

“You find losing boring?” he teases, feigning shock.

“We are tied,” she corrects him, then puts the mead down, pulls up the sim’s menu, and ends the game before he can stop her.

“Hey!” he laughs, catching her by the arms, trying and failing to regain control of the computer. “You play dirty when you’re wasted!”

This time she ignores him, flipping through holographic menus so quickly that it makes his head spin.

He blinks and gives up on trying to read the words. “What are you--”

“Dance with me,” she interrupts, practically shouting in his face as she selects music -- some sort of Sakaaran death metal that makes his temples pound as though he’s gotten an instant hangover from her drinks. 

“Um,” says Peter, intending to tell her that as much as he’d love to, this really, really _isn’t_ dancing music.

But then she’s turning clumsily in his grasp, taking him by the shoulders and trying to sway him to the entirely insane beat.

“Whoa,” he gasps, catching himself before she topples them both over.

Gamora straight up _pouts_ at him, looking so scandalized that it’s all he can do not to start laughing again.

“ _Dance_ with me,” she says again, more plaintively this time, then attempts to spin herself out on his arm the way he taught her way back when. She miraculously manages the first part, pauses with a hand on her triumphantly-cocked hip. But when she tries to spin back in toward him, she trips over her own feet, plummeting into Peter at full speed. This time he can’t compensate, but fortunately the bed is behind him, so all he has to do is wrap an arm around her waist and fall back onto it.

“How ‘bout we stay like this for now?” he suggests, lifting her gently so that she’s settled beside him.

She nods enthusiastically, then winces a bit at the movement.

“How’re you feeling?” asks Peter, reaching out to touch her cheek. He can feel the flush on her skin, glances over and realizes how empty the bottle of mead is now.

She considers for a moment. “Little floaty. But good floaty.”

He nods, smoothing a few errant curls of hair off her face. “Can I get you anything? Water?”

She ignores the question, shifting closer to him until he can feel the heat of her breath brushing against his cheek. Her eyes are fathomless and dark, a specific sort of softness there that he treasures.

“What?” he whispers, his heart suddenly beating faster.

“You make me so happy,” she breathes, resting her hand against his cheek. Her voice is soft, a little hoarse, a note of vulnerability that he isn’t expecting. “I never thought -- It always seemed an impossibility for me. But you -- “ She breaks off, shakes her head, then yawns so hard that her jaw makes a soft pop.

“ _Oh_ ,” Peter murmurs, his own throat suddenly tight as his emotions surge just below the surface.

“I love you,” she says warmly, tracing his lower lip with the pad of her thumb. “I love you.”

It isn’t the first time she’s said it, isn’t like he wasn’t already _sure_. But it is the most freely she’s ever told him, and the dopey grin she follows it with takes his breath away. By the time he manages to find his voice, Gamora’s curled into him, half-asleep.

“I know,” he says quietly, into her hair. He thinks of Star Wars again, and his mother, and Yondu -- Pictures them out there somewhere, glowing Force ghosts on the edge of the known galaxy. One proud -- no, _both_ proud, really -- one wincing at his sentimentality.

“Quit that,” he mutters to the imagined Yondu, which makes Gamora shift drowsily against him.

“Shhhh,” she hisses, and he soothes her with a hand in her hair.

Tonight, despite the ever-present memories of loss, his heart feels entirely full.

**Author's Note:**

> An early birthday gift for [invisibledaemon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/invisibledaemon/pseuds/invisibledaemon), my favorite Guardians partner in crime!


End file.
